The people have already come into the church (well, most of them have arrived). Individual practices are everywhere. Some genuflect before taking their pew. Some bow solemnly before the altar, then sit. Others wave to friends and family and start to make small talk while mindlessly half-genuflecting and then sitting to make a cursory prayer. In just a few moments, however, these people will be receiving one of the greatest gifts given to humanity. The Eucharist. These people will remain in their chosen pew until the time comes for them to process up to the altar of God to receive a tiny piece of what was once bread and a little sip of what was once wine that will transform their hearts and minds.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

We begin and conclude Mass with this simple and profound prayer. But have we really thought about what it means to make the “sign of the cross”?

Let’s start with the obvious. The “sign of the cross” is made by saying the Trinitarian invocation while touching one’s right hand to the forehead first (Father), then to the lower chest or stomach (Son), then to the left shoulder and the right shoulder (Holy Spirit), and closing with both our hands together for assent (Amen). Are these physical actions just arbitrarily chosen, or do they signify something? Why do we touch the forehead when we mean God the Father? Why do we touch our chest when mean God the Son? And why do we touch our shoulders when we mean the God the Holy Spirit?

Silence is not a common feature in my life. As a musician I am rarely without a song in my head, and this song can find its way out of my mind even with the slightest prompting—if a word, phrase, or chord progression resembles something in a song I love, I begin a full rendition. I’ve been known to accidentally hum in class absentmindedly, much to the dismay of my teachers. Heck, I even talk in my sleep.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” (Lk 2: 13–14)

In the celebration of the liturgy, the Glory to God occupies a unique place. On the one hand, it is a response: we have just participated in the Penitential Act by recalling and confessing our sinfulness as individuals and as a worshiping community, and we have just heard the priest pronounce the concluding blessing “in which the forgiveness of sins is given.” The only response that makes any sense in the face of such a gift is to cry out “Glory to God in the highest.”